


Homecoming

by thedarlingone (Curuchamion)



Category: Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Neck Kissing, OT4, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Distna, Present Tense, Reunion Sex, a little bit of angst because Distna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curuchamion/pseuds/thedarlingone
Summary: When the Rogues return from being presumed dead after Distna, Wes joins Wedge, Tycho, and Hobbie in quarantine.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to Mayhem21 for a truly spectacular beta, to camshaft22 for helping me talk myself into this, and to both of them for holding my hand all the way through writing.

"You realize," Admiral Ackbar says, "that if Isard has indeed infected the Rogues with a disease such as the Krytos plague, joining your… friends... in quarantine might well mean your own death."

Wes stands at attention, his shoulders absolutely square. "With respect, sir," he says, "if they do have such a disease and I'm _not_ with them?" He hopes like hell that Ackbar is as compassionate a soul as Wedge always says he is. "Forgive my bluntness, but--" He gulps. "Sir, I'd rather die with them than watch them die alone. Please."

*****

Wes hurries into the quarantine room. It's large but sparsely furnished: a table and chairs, three narrow beds, a refresher off to one side. One long wall of the room is floor-to-ceiling transparisteel, currently opaqued. Wes pulls his boots off and leaves them lying under the table, then hops up and sits on the dull surface, legs swinging. His nerves are thrumming with tension. This will be his home for the next two weeks, until everyone is cleared by the medical droids. All he has to do now is wait… wait for his partners to arrive from Medical to begin their long stay in quarantine.

After a few minutes, he hears the outer door of the airlock hiss open and shut again. His heart begins thumping in his chest. Then the inner door slides open.

Wes's stomach flip-flops. They're _here_. Wedge and Tycho and Hobbie, in black TIE fighter flightsuits, all looking stressed and weary, but inexplicably alive. He ignores the sudden hollowness in his gut, the strange last flare of grief hesitant to turn into joy, and offers them a cheery grin and a wave. "Hey, guys," he says, more shyly than he intended.

They freeze, staring at him. For a second, he can see it on all their faces -- he died, he's dead, there's a ghost sitting on their table, are they hallucinating? He feels the same way. Maybe he's only dreaming. Maybe he's about to wake up, his bed empty, his arms desperately clutching a pillow, as he has so often over the past two months.

Hobbie's the first to move. He walks forward, hesitant, his eyes wide with both fear and hope, his flesh hand reaching out as if he expects it to pass right through Wes. Wes isn't entirely sure it won't, or which of them will be the ghost if it does.

Hobbie's fingertips touch his chest and stop. He reaches a little further and lays his whole hand over Wes's heart, both of them still solid, human. For a moment, Wes stares into Hobbie's gray eyes, his pulse pounding so hard he can hear it. Somehow, it's true. They're not dead. They came back. They came back for him.

Then Hobbie grabs him by the shoulders, leans down, and kisses him hard. Wes shoves himself off the table, breaking contact for a second, then stretches up again, sucks Hobbie's beautiful pouty lower lip into his mouth and nibbles at it. He pushes Hobbie back a step or so -- he can hear whoops of startled joy, Wedge and Tycho will need room to gather around him -- and then he stops thinking about logistics and gives himself over fully to the kiss. Hobbie's hands settle on his hips, pulling him up on tiptoe. Wes wraps his arms around Hobbie's neck, arching his whole body into Hobbie's and rubbing against him, pulling Hobbie's head down to deepen the kiss. He half-murmurs something that might have been "You're alive" or "You came back" or "You're real", but his tongue is busy and so is Hobbie's, and words aren't needed between them anyway.

There's a clatter of running boots on the polished floor, and then other hands are on him. Somebody's plastered against his back, helping take his weight while nuzzling little kisses into his hair, their arms wrapping around him, hands sliding insistently between him and Hobbie to start unfastening the jacket of his day uniform. Somebody else pulls Hobbie's hand from his hip, unwinds one of his own arms from around Hobbie's neck, then shoulders partway between them, mouth sucking needily at the pulse point by his throat. Wes wraps his arm around whichever of his lovers that is, reaching to squeeze their butt, and finds Hobbie's hand there first. He pats the back of Hobbie's hand, amused, then shifts his own hand to grip the unclaimed buttock, firm and warm in his grasp.

The hands between Wes and Hobbie finish unsealing Wes's jacket and move on, gliding down to open his pants. One hand settles on his hipbone; the other reaches into his pants, fondling his hardening cock through the fabric of his undershorts. Wes groans and thrusts into the touch, his whole body trembling with want as clever fingers gently squeeze him, sending sparks of pleasure through him. Then, regretfully, he breaks off his rediscovery of Hobbie's mouth and turns his head, opening his eyes.

His chin brushes dark, floppy hair. The mouth on his neck is Wedge's, then, and the buttock under his hand. Which means--

"Tycho, stop that," he says, thrusting again in spite of himself.

Tycho stops immediately. They all do. Wedge's head comes up as he pulls away slightly, Tycho's hands move back to Wes's waist. He can see the same worried expression on Hobbie's and Wedge's faces -- is he okay, did something happen while they were gone, have they overstepped?

Wes gives them a reassuring smile. "I'm fine," he says, squeezing Wedge's butt again for emphasis. "But Tych, if you keep doing that, I'm going to come before I even get my pants off." Except for a few wet dreams that left him heartsick with grief upon awakening, he hasn't done anything sexual these past two months; every time he began to jerk off in the shower or in his bed, he imagined his lost lovers' hands on him instead of his own, forgetting for a moment that they were dead rather than absent, and when he remembered he couldn't bring himself to continue. Now his body is begging for release.

Wedge grins, that filthy smirk that only Wes and his other lovers get to see. "What if that's what we want?" he asks, reaching down to run his forefinger just inside the band of Wes's undershorts, all the way across from hipbone to hipbone.

Wes stifles another groan. His cock aches, and Wedge is _teasing_ him. "I'm thirty!" he snaps with what little dignity he can muster. "I refuse to come in my pants like a teenager!"

Wedge frowns. "That's right, we missed your lifeday, didn't we?" he asks.

Tycho wraps his arms around Wes's chest and hugs him firmly, pressing a kiss against the back of his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."

"It was… not fun," Wes admits. They'd been planning his party for months, constantly joking about whether he'd finally grow up once he had three full decades under his belt. When the day actually arrived, he almost hadn't celebrated at all; late at night, he'd gotten some ice cream from the mess hall and eaten it in his quarters, alone, miserable, his chest aching with unshed tears as he'd tried to tell himself to move on from his loss.

"Well, then," Hobbie says, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Happy lifeday." And he drops to his knees.

Wes gasps and whimpers at the slow friction as Hobbie draws the waistband of his shorts down over the length of his hard cock, deliberately teasing him with the motion. Then Hobbie shoves down his pants and underwear both at once. For a second, the air is relatively cool on his flushed skin -- until Hobbie's mouth slides hot and wet and tight around him, and a moan spills from Wes's throat as he loses all coherent speech.

Tycho's hands slide up inside his undershirt, along his sides and up under his arms. With Tycho's help, Wes peels out of his shirt and jacket together, leaving him with just his pants loose around his ankles. Then Tycho's hands are running over his chest, playing with his nipples, tracing through his chest hair and down along his abdominal muscles. Wedge leans in again and begins kissing him, first gently, with an affectionate little lick along his lower lip, then more hungrily. 

Wes leans back on Tycho a little more for balance, feeling the thick fabric of Tycho's flightsuit against his back and butt, the unmistakable bulge of Tycho's cock rubbing his tailbone as Tycho rocks his hips forward. Wes slings one arm over Wedge's shoulder as he returns the kiss, sucking Wedge's tongue into his mouth, meeting it with his own. He finds Hobbie's hair with his other hand, fumbles at the short strands, trying to give a warning tug -- he's so close, so close, and oh, he wants so bad.

There's movement behind him, Tycho's lower body shifting away for a moment, the sound of a flightsuit unsealing, and then Tycho's cock is hard against his buttocks, rubbing between them. Wes arches back on instinct as Tycho's cock teases his hole, his body desperately wanting to open up and take Tycho inside him, and it's that little extra bit of need that tips him over the edge. He clutches at Hobbie's hair again and snaps his hips forward, fucking into Hobbie's mouth, feels Hobbie angle his head slightly to take him, his throat open for Wes's cock. Wes's head falls back nearly to Tycho's shoulder, and a cry of completion rips out of his chest as he comes, surrounded by his lovers once again.

Hobbie takes him through it, sucking and swallowing, teasing every last bit of pleasure from Wes's shaking body. Wes sags against Wedge and Tycho, trembling, gasping for breath, his arm over Wedge's shoulders barely holding him up. Hobbie's mouth is still wrapped around Wes's cock, gentle and careful now; Wes looks down, watching with dazed eyes as Hobbie lets the softening organ slip out of his mouth, then leans forward to place a fond little kiss on its tip.

Tycho's strong arms come up around Wes's chest, supporting him. Hobbie stands up, looking far too smug for a man whose flightsuit is visibly straining over his own erection. "Happy lifeday," he says again, and bends down for another kiss.

This one's slower, less urgent. Wes breaks it after a few languorous seconds. "My turn," he says breathlessly, his gaze dropping to Hobbie's crotch, though his knees still don't really feel like knees and his whole body just wants to lie down.

Wedge laughs happily. "On the _bed_ , Wes," he says, tugging at Wes's hand. 

Wes tries to follow and makes an indistinct little noise of dismay; he forgot that his pants and undershorts are still bunched around his legs. Hobbie laughs too, and drops back down to help free him. Wes leans back again, the strong circle of Tycho's arms wrapping around him once more, and kicks his pants off, then twists his head around for a few awkward little kisses while he tries to get his breath back and steady his still-racing heart.

Tycho indulges him, smiling, interspersing the kisses on Wes's lips with ones on his cheek, ear, nose, and hair. "Take it easy, Wes," he says. "We're in here for two weeks with nothing else to do."

Wes laughs and reaches behind him, trailing his fingertips over Tycho's hard cock where it's still pressed against his bare butt. Tycho twitches away, laughing with him. "We have all the time in the world," he says.


End file.
